


The Photograph

by Jimlockian



Series: Mise-En-Scène [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, NSFW, Post Season/Series 02 AU, References to Canonical Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trail of sweat beads down the elongated forehead and as Jim blinks it away, John swears he has never seen something so beautiful. Even with Sherlock's cheekbones and pale skin, a writhing Jim is an unparalleled display of pulchritude.<br/>Warning: Graphic descriptions of intercourse, aka NSFW content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the conclusion of Season Two - This is only AU as it makes the assumption that not only did Sherlock live, but so did Moriarty.
> 
> Credit to Doyle, Moffat & Gatiss, no copyright infringement intended. Just having fun!

John has been at Sherlock's side like no one else. At the pool he was set up with explosives just so Moriarty could make a point about emotionality. John never thought he was more than a pawn. He could never have been more wrong.

There is a reason John was there for it all, a reason he has been granted the privilege of watching two brilliant minds duel. Doctor Watson had been selected by Sherlock at the beginning, and what one genius saw so did the other.

So after the final problem had been played out Jim Moriarty cleaned himself up from the fake blood pack (well, real in a sense he got it from a human, fake that it was not his own) and destroyed the tampered prop-gun. Then he disappeared. At least, he did for a little while.

Until one night five months later. One rainy, average, London night that seemed as monotonous as the next to John. They have all become that way since Sherlock Holmes plummeted. Still, John retains a strange hope, even if it has dulled with time's passage.

The dark figure enters 221b in a navy blue suit, shaking his umbrella and setting the spindly black contraption on the floor of the downstairs hall. He climbs the stairs with a slight squish from the wetness clinging to his shoes. By the time he reaches the top he is all but dry.

As soon as Moriarty touches the handle he knows the door is not locked. A wicked tight lipped grin comes to his face as he thinks that the little pet has left it open in case Sherlock should return. _How sweet. Aren't ordinary people adorable?_

John turns away from the window toward a creaking noise behind him, only to let his mouth fall open at the sight of a crisply dressed James Moriarty standing in a suit and tie, looking entirely uninterested in the fact that he had just come back from the dead as far as John was concerned.

Jim's eyes take a precursory sweep across the living room, idly remarking, “I thought you would have moved out by now, Doctor.”

“Bloody hell..” John whispers, standing aghast for more then a minute while Jim coolly stares. Without having finished processing what is happening John starts charging at his best friend's nemesis and 'murderer' in anger.

Jim removes a photograph from his pocket and holds it out with a pointed stare. That does not stop John from knocking him sideways with a slamming punch to the jaw. A dribble of blood colors the corner of Jim's lips. Then John notices the ebony curls in the photograph and snatches it off the floor, fallen out of Jim's hand from the impact of the punch.  
  
Eyes narrowed, then turning misty as the figure's face is without a doubt Sherlock Holmes. A little rough for wear, but Sherlock. Sherlock alive. He turns to Moriarty and begins to speak, but only manages to mouth the words.

“We do love our games..” Jim's voice has a small psychotic trill as he lightly rubs his jaw. The smile on his face brings further pain but he does not stop. Brows arch in a manner John can only consider sinister.

“Tell me where you got this.” John finally demands in a voice smaller than he meant to sound.

“After you do something for me..” That soft tone is dangerous, alluring like a wafting fragrance from a baited trap. James Moriarty is sneering as he leans forward, closing the gap between them.

“What do you want?” John's pulse picks up.

Instead of words, Jim is a man of action. He takes one last step to anchor his foot between John's legs, leaning forward to drop that one inch needed to bring his lips over the other man's before he can see the crestfallen look on John's face.

Their lips come crashing together – Moriarty's, almost fighting, nipping, letting his tongue thrash, while John's remains still in shock. Somewhere within John knows agreeing will lead to answers. The rest of him is so full of mottled emotions at the news that Sherlock is not dead, and neither is Moriarty, and Moriarty.. Oh God he is kissing the man back now, lost for so long and finally feeling like something good is falling back as it ought be.

The feel of another person validates John's existence, which has been lonely without the detective skulking about the flat. Coppery tang from Jim's blood passes between them, along with an earthy undertone from the consulting criminal. Jim grabs onto the doctor's jumper, eyes opening to watch it get tugged off. Then his lips are back on John's with hungry urgency.

Feeling Jim's bulge against his inner thigh, John is well aware where this is likeliest to lead. He reaches around and grips the small of Jim's back. Taking the lead, Moriarty unbuttons his own jacket and tosses it to the ground. He unbuttons his freshly ironed white shirt, but does not throw that aside. While Jim's hands are off him for that, he quickly pulls off John's shirt, the man always layered, before tugging him toward the couch with a few awkward but successful steps.

John's belt becomes the first casualty below the waist. As soon as it is undone Jim slides those devilish fingers in, and John feels his experience. Sherlock's deduction in St. Bart's had been correct, those fingers knew their way around a man. He bucks into that villainous hand with a hint of shame, but the pleasure is worth the emotional torment.

“Take off my trousers.” Moriarty's command nearly throws him for a loop, eyes widening like saucers. Slowly John removes his hands and obeys.

“Pants.” Moriarty barks gently.

Even though he is blushing, John obeys that, too. The erection that greets him rivets his eyes – he has not stared at another man with desire before. Suddenly a thought occurs to him and he nervously lifts his eyes up to Jim's face. “I'm not..”

“No, I am.” Jim cuts off his sentence sharply. He palms John through the fabric of his trousers before pulling them down, and John's boxers follow to reveal his own throbbing shaft. Jim is on him again - All hungry mouth and slippery tongue. Then, like a spider with eight delicate hands, John barely feels Jim's hands taking hold of his bare flesh. They pull him forward forcefully, sending John groaning as their members touch.

Jim pulls him onto the nearest flat surface – the couch. Of course Jim has to push John in the end, but the man's balance is easy to dislodge. With a brief tumble John goes down, and the eager man throws one leg over him and climbs on to brush them together again. John is nude, and Jim only has his collared shirt left on, flung open to reveal his tabular chest and pert pink nipples.

John starts to gasp when the raw feeling hits him - Moriarty is stroking him as their flesh collides. He's driven the militant man to full prominence, after John's insisted all those times with Sherlock that he is not interested in men. The feeling of Jim's hips lifting up off his triggers a baited breath within John. When they fall back down and he feels his body engulfed, Moriarty's hand moves away. The two men joined – no longer by Sherlock Holmes – but together in the deepest way possible.

John only knows how virginal Jim feels, at least that is the only comparison he has after just being with women - a tightness that strangles his prick in the best way possible. The more he remains buried, the more he settles and his chest stops heaving. He notices he feels a slickness that is probably not customary – so Jim prepared himself, with this in mind. The wild creature that he is, indeed..

Stillness does not last long, though John is waiting for his comfort, but Moriarty is positioned perfectly on John's hips. His sturdy thighs are more than enough support as Jim begins to move. Slow is not in Jim's vocabulary. As soon as they start, John's pupils make a show of contraction, then dilating.

Jim is thrusting himself down with all the force his hips have. The taut buttocks John is sliding into effortlessly is clamping hard as alligator jaws. His vision intermittently falls out of focus with the blinding pleasure. The light brown head thrown back against the cushions with a broken cry, “Mor-m.. Moriah-ah-ahh!”

“It's.. Jim.. Now.. D-dear..” Each sultry word punctuated with a swift movement as Jim rides John with the precision and power of a piston. A trail of sweat beads down the elongated forehead and as Jim blinks it away, John swears he has never seen something so beautiful. Even with Sherlock's cheekbones and pale skin, a writhing Jim is an unparalleled display of pulchritude.

“Jim..” He exhales the sweet whisper and clamps his hands down along the side of the genius' hips as his shaft pulsates deep within. Only once does that name come out cleanly. He repeatedly chokes on it like bittersweet poison tightening his throat.

Jim says little as panting has taken over his lungs between soft cries of, “Oh John!” that often end up gasped out. He continues to ride the square shouldered man's hips with relentless vigor, until John's age and lack of recent romantic attention catches up with him. Biting his lower lip, John gives a strangled cry before his hips jerk upward erratically twice, then he coats Moriarty internally.

John's hands fall back upon the couch, his body giving in to the urge to let his weight just drop. Jim's writhing slows to twitching. Even from this angle John cannot fail to notice the weeping erection jutting stiffly towards him. Pearly precum has trailed down the engorged shaft. Though it's obvious that the limp member within Jim is not going to finish him now. Strangely, the villain has lost this round if carnal gratification is his motivation, and from his quivering efforts to continue, John does not need to have Sherlockian skills to deduce that it must be.

Instead of feeling some sort of satisfaction that this despicable man has at least been denied a release John watches Moriarty's face; His features scrunch in a pained delirium while every inch of him tenses between clenching. The rumpled white shirt contrasting his lightly tanned skin, gleaming with a sheen of sweat.

John does not think, he simply reaches forward and wraps his fingers around Jim's erection. The consulting criminal lets out a sharp cry and immediately begins to speed up his hips from twitches to jerking thrusts. John tries to move in time with him, palming head to base. Jim is already so roused from the penetration that it takes little to finish him off. His body tenses before shooting strands of white onto John's hand and stomach while his hips keep going slowly for a minute before falling slack.

There is silence in the flat for so long that John becomes unnerved. He lays back and tries to contemplate what he has just participated in rather willingly – an association that he cannot wash away because he desired it, he made it happen. John is not even sure he would want to undo it if he could.

After a few minutes Jim begins to button up his shirt, sliding off of John without much expression. His expensive jacket, trousers and shoes, are all located and pulled on. Jim takes the time to smooth out creases formed in their hurried yanking off before strolling casually from the flat.

When Moriarty has gone John looks over at the photograph... It lies on the floor for John to try and find details while he 'plays' Sherlock Holmes, because Jim knows none are there or he would not have left it. Tears spring unbidden to John's brown eyes as he knows he will not find Sherlock, Sherlock will have to choose to find him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudo/comment if you like! This is not my usual pairing but I could not resist this time.. This has become a series, yay!


End file.
